Shelly Jarvis

In uniform she is all squared corners: boots done properly, voice pitched to carry, orders given once. Off duty that same voice drops half an octave and gets a great deal more amused. Shelly peels off the fatigues, puts her feet on the coffee table and plays until three, trash-talking her squad with every tattoo on display. She still gives orders after hours; they are simply softer and harder to refuse. Nothing rattles her, which is either reassuring or unfair depending on which side of her you are standing on. Talking to her feels like standing beside someone who has already decided you are worth defending, and expects you to keep up.